


Ashes to Ashes

by volti



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here he is, heart racing, hands shaking, angry for giving all the wrong sorts of goodbyes and still trying to come down from the swarm of thoughts, something like a violin riff, that brought him back here in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> So I promised my good friend I would write one of these for her! Basically the prompt was something along the lines of “Jean wakes up crying from a dream about Marco and he and Armin sit outside for a while—they don’t say much, but Jean thinks it’s nice.” Hope you enjoy it!

“What are you doing out here?” Jean can barely see the silhouette out of the corner of his eye, refuses to tear his eyes away from the bonfire that has long since died. The hesitant shuffle-step tells him that it’s Armin standing there, taking a seat next to him on the cold ground. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I guess I could ask you the same thing.” Armin sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully, like just the wrong thing, even slightly, could send Jean into some partially precedented downward spiral. It probably could. “I couldn’t sleep,” he offers like he really believes that misery loves company; Jean, on the other hand, has always been of the impression that misery could do with some alone time every now and then, more often than not, because misery is weakness and weakness lacks comfort, and comfort’s what he’s been looking for all this time, isn’t it? “Can I maybe sit with you for a while?”

Jean rubs at the salt that’s caked on his cheeks, right hand balled into a fist, guarding ashes that are no longer there, that could have belonged to anyone—to Marco, maybe. He hopes. “Sure,” he replies through clenched teeth. “Sure, whatever.” Better Armin than Mikasa, he supposes. What an embarrassment that would be, for her to see him like this.

Armin doesn’t look broken, or angry, or distressed—at least, not from what he can see. It’s like there’s this strange light about him, even in the dead of night, that doesn’t go out, even with whatever he’s been through, whatever inexplicable hell that was. He’s silent, and he’s solemn, and he’s still. And for Jean, it’s unbearable. It’s unbearable how the kid beside him is so still and so quiet after what happened in Trost when here he is, heart racing, hands shaking, angry for giving all the wrong sorts of goodbyes and still trying to come down from the swarm of thoughts, something like a violin riff, that brought him back here in the first place.

It came in flashes in his head. Marco’s body, or what was left of it, half-leaning against a building, a pale, half-eaten face, the bonfires, the echoed ring of half-hollow reassurances of what kind of leader he could be, what kind of person he could be, the fact that Marco could have been alone, died alone, apology after apology and guilt upon guilt, no time to fall behind and yet all the time to regret. Back and forth, jerking at him until he was awake and in unexpected tears and unable to get back to sleep. He could stop and breathe it all away for the time being, he thought, but in all the time he’s been sitting here, he’s come to the realization that there’s just something so strange about the fresh air now, like there’s something wrong with taking it in if Marco’s not breathing it, too.

And then there’s Armin. And who knows what Armin’s been through? And who knows why he just sits there like that, like he did in Trost, nothing but a bundle of frustratingly irreparable silence? Jean doesn’t dare ask. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, doesn’t trust his brain not to shut down for one second, and one second could be all it would take.

When Jean finally musters up the strength to look away from the bonfire structures, he sees Armin reaching for his hand, gingerly patting the back of his still-clenched fist. His nails have probably dug half-moons into his palm by now—maybe his hand would be stuck like this forever. He wouldn’t mind holding a piece of Marco like this for the rest of his life, however short it would be, every time he offers his heart to humankind. But he lets Armin slowly pry his hand open, careful as his words, and when Armin’s fingers curl around his hand and lock ever so gently around his wrist, something stops. It isn’t the sick, lovey-dovey sort of thing where time stops and he tumbles headfirst into latent emotions (as though he can think about something like that at a time like this). But something shuts down. It stops, and it’s quiet, and there’s comfort. And he shares the ashes.

"What are you going to do?" Armin asks quietly, still holding onto his hand; Jean could swear he heard the other boy stammer, felt him give his hand a light squeeze, as though a mere touch couldn’t possibly be enough.

Jean shrugs.

"It’s okay," Armin adds, and Jean isn’t quite sure what "it" is, but somehow Armin’s words are a little easier to believe.

—

When Jean stumbles in for breakfast the next morning after a few hours of some sorry excuse for sleep, he’s surprised to see Armin waving him over. There’s the same light and sadness and utter reality that surrounded him the night before, and Jean finds himself robotically nodding and shuffling over to where the other boy is sitting with his usual group.

Amid sputters from Eren and the occasional glance from Mikasa, the swarm returns, the flashes come back, his hand starts to shake again, until Armin makes a subtle grab for it under the table and begins to discuss schedules and strategies as though nothing else is wrong. And everything stops again, just the way it did before. 

Armin slowly traces letters into Jean’s palm while he eats, and it isn’t until his plate is clear, until Armin’s finished talking, that his brain finally spells out IT’S OKAY.


End file.
